


You Are In Love

by cocococonut



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: !!!, (these are hints of what's to come btw!!), Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, First Kiss, Fluff, I promise its good, Inside jokes, Jealousy, Love Declarations, Love Realisations, M/M, Multiple Pov, Protective Boyfriends, Scones, Secret Relationship, Song: You Are In Love (Taylor Swift), Stargazing, Truth or Dare, a slow burn??, based off a Taylor Swift song, baz is sad, but also lots of fluffy romance, but penny is observant, i feel like baz loves taylor swift, i love taylor swift, i promise i did her justice, im in it for the long haul folks, infirmary, insomnia??, like very, lots of pining, most of the lyrics have at least one chapter, mutually, passing notes, penny and simon are best bros, simon finds out from stalking him, so are penny and baz, some angst!, the gang is formed, they become friends!!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:08:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25244416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cocococonut/pseuds/cocococonut
Summary: what it says on the tin!
Relationships: Dev & Niall & Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Dev & Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Fiona Pitch & Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Niall & Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Penelope Bunce & Simon Snow, Penelope Bunce & Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Simon Snow & Agatha Wellbelove, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 29
Kudos: 35





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> the playlist i listened to while writing this chapter: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7pnSOFbNjrHA52xQ8sQcmx?si=2R1D9lgRTTuAEQkhDUU26w  
> some of the songs' lyrics related to the chapter, some just had the vibe i was going for. feel free to listen while reading!
> 
> I was listening to taylor swift, and decided I wanted to analyse every lyric of every song/ you are in love is the most romantic song to exist, so i thought i'd write a fic inspired by it. naturally.  
> this chapter's (and next chapter's, probably) lyric is "coffee at midnight". i hope you enjoy it!!! i have no idea how long this fic will be, but im guessing very long lmao  
> im going to try to update two to three times a week (hopefully)  
> maybe sometimes more?? who knows  
> enjoy this mess!!

**BAZ**

I haven’t slept in weeks. I’m not hiding it very well either - I’m antsy and dazed, and I can barely focus in class. I forget how to conjugate Greek verbs I’ve been able to recite in my sleep since the age of five, in front of the entire class. I barely had the energy to sneer at Snow’s confused (and suspicious) face across the classroom. He wasn’t even trying to hide it, anyone would’ve noticed. (Of course I noticed, I can’t _not._ ) He’s so easy to read, his face is always so open. You can see every thought and feeling flicker over his features (I hope he’s always like that. I hope he never has to shut himself out like I do. I never want him to be that miserable, not that he’d believe that).

Some teachers have asked to see me after class, all asking the same questions. _Is something wrong, Basilton? Mr Pitch, have you been getting enough sleep? I’ve noticed a lack of focus from you recently._ To which I reply, _Everything is fine, sir. I’ve been sleeping fine, miss. I’ll be sure to be more involved next class, my apologies._ I try to exude the confidence I had before Christmas, and sometimes it works, but as time goes on the professors’ pitying and skeptical glances tell me all I need to know.

My status as a Pitch ( _not_ Grimm-Pitch, I’m not particularly proud of that at the moment) helps a small bit. I’m always intimidating, although I think the bags under my eyes and shaking hands are letting me down. 

  
Instead of sleeping (I hardly even try anymore, there’s no point), I stalk down to the kitchens. Cook Pritchard is an old friend of the family, and she had a key cut for me at the start of last year, which has become, probably, my most cherished possession (after my mother’s scarf). Instead of sitting at the table in the Great Hall, moving around and stabbing at food I won’t eat, I can have something before heading down to the catacombs. (Sometimes they stock pig’s blood in the fridges for pudding. I try to restrain myself, because one thing could lead to another, and Cook Pritchard would be wondering why gallons of blood were missing from her kitchen.) 

This has meant no more glaring at Snow from across the Hall, which I miss terribly. I miss _him_ terribly. I haven’t really seen much of him recently. I spend as little time in our room as possible, day and night. He never studies in the library, which is where I spend most of my free time. He’s always asleep when I get back to our room. Or at least I think he is. My senses (even my vampire-senses) have weakened considerably since I stopped getting my four hours of sleep each night. Insomnia is quite inconvenient. 

I still see him in class, though. I stare. I barely register that I’m staring until I’m called upon and have no clue what topic we’re discussing. It’s fifth year all over again. While I can’t focus on chemistry, or how to defend myself from a chimera (which would’ve been useful information a few years ago), focusing on Simon has never been a problem. My mind automatically wants to go there. It still pains me to look at him, but it’s also comforting. He’s so _alive_ (he got my share of it). I can always rely on that mask to slip on, it’s been my default for quite a while. My resolve and hard demeanor may have cracks that are beginning to show, but the look of disdain I feel on my face when I stare at the back of Snow’s wild, unkempt curls (he really needs some product in them), is familiar. Easy. Hard, excruciatingly so, but so _easy_.

My feet take me to the kitchens in minutes, taking shortcut after shortcut. I probably know Watford better than my own home. Then again, Watford has always been more of a home to me than Pitch Manor. I grew up in a tower with Simon Snow. Not in that house.

There’s no chance of anyone finding me here this late, and I have a key, so I could argue that I have the authority to be here if anyone asks. I can always bring up my mother, which works like a charm (not an actual magickal charm). I don’t like using her name like that, though, and talking about her is hard enough, as it is. _Thinking_ about her is hard enough.

_What would she think of me if she could see me now?_

I stop that train of thought as best as I can - that’s not the rabbit hole I’m going down tonight. Instead my mind wanders to my last visit to Pitch Manor, as it has, non-stop, since Christmas. The house was decorated tastefully, the cooks were quietly frantic in the kitchen, and a mound of presents lay under the Christmas tree, everything as it should be. (We’re not Catholic, I’m not sure why we celebrate Christmas. We’re not exactly the merriest family). I wasn’t quite lulled into a false sense of security, but the scene was all very _charming,_ and I was in relatively good spirits, all things considered. I’ve never spent a Christmas at Watford, only at Pitch Manor. This year felt achingly familiar but there was something different in the air. The children were as annoying as always (I missed them), and Daphne was her ever-polite self. It was my father who was acting strange. 

That should’ve been my first indication to _get the fuck out of that house._ **  
  
**

I open a packet of marshmallows and start boiling some water for tea with unsteady hands. I’m quite fond of marshmallows, I’ve recently discovered. 

  
While I wait for the water to boil, I look through the fridges for some blood. While pig’s blood isn’t exactly a Michelin star meal, it’s far better than rodent blood. Even if it tasted worse, the fact that a whole pint is already there, ready to be served (it’s horrid cold, so I make do with some spells) and I don’t have to hunt for it, or actually _kill and feed_ on an animal, is enough. If you didn’t know what was in my mug, you’d think I was just a regular bloke, having a drink at midnight. Other than the clinking of my fangs, I can almost pretend that’s what I am. 

A regular bloke. Not a teenage vampire. With a widow’s peak. Dear Merlin.

I let the tea bag sit in the water for a while as I finish off my mug of blood. The first time I drank blood out of a glass, I could barely take a sip without bursting into delirious, hysterical laughter. It’s been a few months now, and the novelty has worn off a fair bit. A few months ago, I would go back to my room with a stomach full of blood and marshmallows, and go back to sleep (after staring at Snow for a sufficient amount of time). Now, though…

_“The Smiths have a lovely daughter, Rosaline. She’s studying abroad, but she’s coming home for a few weeks. She’s dying to meet you, Basil. The Smiths are very powerful-” regarding money, magick or influence I didn’t know, probably all three, “You’d make a good pair.”_

I sigh heavily, and tie my hair behind me in a low bun. It’s still as soft as usual, but much duller, and thinner. Pieces keep hanging low over my face, but I can’t be bothered to brush them away. With my mug in my hand, my eyes remain focused on the floor as I relive the same evening I’ve been reliving for a month and a half. 

_I immediately felt my body go tense, and hoped no one would notice, especially my father. I felt as though I had walked into a trap. I_ had _. My father is nothing if not calculating. I took a sip of my drink and nodded, hoping but not believing it would appease my father. He looked at me as expectantly as his stoic features would allow. The twins started babbling about whatever toddlers babble about, taking the attention off of me. My relief didn’t last long, though, as my father began speaking again almost immediately, as Daphne tended to the twins._

_“She’s very sharp. I think you’d like her, Basil.”_

_I wasn’t sure how to reply to that. Both my father and I knew I could only like her to a certain extent. I raised an eyebrow at him, my go-to._

_“I’m sure she’s lovely, but I have plenty of friends.” I tried to sound as polite as possible. It didn’t please my father, however._

_“Basilton, you need to start thinking about your future. In a serious manner.” When had I ever been anything but serious in the presence of my father? And what future? I had already long accepted I would die at the hands of Simon Snow. I was hardly upset about it._

_“I highly doubt my future will involve_ Rosaline _,” I drawled, looking my father in the eye for as long as I could before I retreated to focus back on the cooked ham I hadn’t even picked at. In the corner of my eye, I could see Daphne, looking elegant and panicked, her eyes flickering between me and my father, and then to Mordelia who was banging her cutlery together rhythmically. Well. As rhythmically as she could. I had been teaching her piano for a while, and she wasn’t exactly musically gifted._

_I looked at my father again, daringly, and regretted it instantly. Sometimes I forget that my father is human, and this was one of those times. He became this terrifying, determined, cold figure, no longer my father, but a stranger that I somehow knew all too well._

_“And why would that be, Basilton?”_

_There was an obvious edge to his voice that quieted even Mordelia. I was surprised he asked, considering he knew the answer. And didn’t like it. I knew he didn’t expect me to answer honestly, especially not in front of the entire family. At that moment I wished more than anything that Fiona was there. Where was she?_

_Before I lost my nerve, I answered him-_

_“Because I’m gay.”_

I’m pulled from my thoughts when I hear a clatter, and I turn my head so quickly I feel faint. A platter that lay precariously on a table near the door is now on the floor. Who knocked it over? Is someone else here? After a few seconds of careful deliberation, I decide I don’t care. I’m still distracted, playing my father’s words and my own on a loop in my head.

I mean, _honestly._ He looked like he was about to go into cardiac arrest. If Dev and Niall think I have a flair for the dramatics, they should have seen my father that night. I smirk at the thought of Niall’s stunned expression and Dev rolling his eyes (good man) watching my father react to my words.

The smirk fades, quickly, and I just feel sad. Unbearably, smotheringly sad. I’m barely angry anymore, I just feel heavy. More dead than usual. Which may be from the lack of sleep, but also from the knowledge that I probably won’t be seeing my family for a while. The knowledge that my father is so disgusted by me, so _disappointed in me_ , that he felt the need to tell me so, sparing no details. He barely raised his voice, his seething anger more akin to ice than fire. I would’ve preferred if we had a screaming match, but instead I sat there, powerless, as he proceeded to stake me through the heart with every over-pronounced word. When he was finished, I stood up, my vision blurry from the tears I refused to let fall in front of my father, and with a nod of my head and what I hoped was my best self-assured smirk, left the room. Later on, I locked the door to my bedroom and cried myself hoarse until I couldn’t any longer.

Daphne tried to get me to come out, and Mordelia tried to barge in, but I could barely move. I let them think I was angry and didn’t want to see anyone, but in reality I was stuck to my bed. I don’t know why it upset me so much. I’m completely and utterly pathetic. I don’t _cry._

I guess seventeen years of repressed emotions got the best of me. 

I’ve always known this is how he felt. Hearing it, however, is another story. If I had just stayed quiet and nodded along-

I realise I’m crying before I can stop myself. I’m not blubbering like I was that night (I haven’t let myself cry since), but a steady stream of tears fall from my eyes. I let myself cry and lean against the island in the middle of the kitchen, my eyes squeezed shut. I must look ridiculous. When the tears stop falling, I open my eyes. They still burn, and the ache in my chest is still present and persistent, so I stuff another marshmallow into my mouth. 

As I lean back against the counter, I look at the window opposite me. My reflection is faint, and I can’t tell if it’s because of the glass or because of how gaunt and faded I’ve become. As weak as the reflection is, my eyes are clearly swollen and despondent. I’m in my uniform, no blazer or jumper (which I regret, I’m bloody freezing), and no tie. My shirt’s buttoned down a bit, and it’s untucked. I make sure I look more presentable for classes, of course, but there’s nobody to impress here. I look smaller than I ever have. Smaller than that night in the nursery. I step closer, and sneer at myself in the glass. The reflection just smiles sadly at me and shakes his head. I let out a wet, broken, delirious giggle. I need to sleep before I start conversing with a fucking window.

I shake my head and start to clean up. 

  
  


**SIMON** **  
****  
**_Baz..._


	2. Coffee (Tea) at Midnight, Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ' “I don’t care about all of that,” he insists, as stubborn as always, and I love him for it. I still think he’s outrageously idiotic most of the time, but I love him for that too, I suppose. Aleister Crowley. “I don’t want to fight you, and, well. I don’t know if you want to fight me, but. I don’t want to fight you,” he repeats, phrasing it as a question.
> 
> I light a fire in my palm, which makes Snow jump. I let my hand hover over the tub of ice cream, until it’s just soft enough to dig into. After a few bites, I look up to find him staring, transfixed. “That’s mental,” he says, grinning as if he’s not sure he’s allowed.
> 
> I roll my eyes. “A truce,” I say. “What would this truce entail?”
> 
> He grins properly this time, and he’s made of trouble. '

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm back! i wasn't really sure where i was going with this chapter to be honest, but i dont entirely hate how it turned out?  
> its a bit of a long one, way longer than i expected at least  
> enjoy!

**SIMON**

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Baz for days. 

Well, years, really. It’s different now though. Before, words like _plotting_ and _vampire_ and _evil_ echoed around my head, but now…

_Tired. Lonely. Sad. Human. (Vampire)._

I’m not sure what to think anymore. Baz has been different for a while now, but I assumed his plotting had just become more frantic, with the way he was acting. And he looks awful. As awful as Baz can look, because he always looks perfect - objectively, of course - but the bags under his eyes have bags under them, and his skin has become a sickening shade of grey. 

Maybe he’s really leaning into the vampire look (more so than usual).

I don’t think that’s it, though. Baz cares more about his looks than that (the proof is in the endless supply of hair products in our bathroom), and if what I saw in the kitchens was anything to go by, I’d say something’s wrong. That Baz is _hurt_.

That’s an odd thought - Baz having settings other than anger and plotting. 

What’s more odd is that I’m worried. 

I don’t know how long his crying sessions in the kitchens have been happening. That’s the first time I’ve followed him in ages. (Penny would call it stalking, but I don’t think I should be painted as the bad guy when Baz is a literal vampire).

That’s another thing. Baz is a vampire, and I have proof this time. Unless drinking magickally-reheated blood is something lots of people do. 

To be honest, I haven’t really been fixated on that for the past few days. I’ve always known Baz was a vampire, and I thought seeing it with my own eyes and finally _knowing_ would feel, I don’t know, like I’d finally _won_.

Instead, thoughts of Baz fill every second of every day, with his eyes squeezed shut, tears making their way down his face, clinging to his jaw, which was clenched to the point that I thought it would snap. I’ve always been focused on Baz, but now I want to know why he’s sad, and who made him cry like that, and-

Why the _fuck_ do I care. _That’s_ what I want to know. 

I followed Baz because he was acting strange, and I wanted to get to the bottom of it. It was off-putting, seeing Baz, of all people, so shaken up. I followed him because he’s dangerous, and who knows what he could’ve been up to that whole time? Maybe he was so on-edge because he was waiting for the dragon egg he planted in the catacombs to hatch and wreak havoc on the school. Or something.

Anyone would have followed him in my position. It was the right thing to do. 

But I still feel guilty. I felt like I was intruding on something private. Which should’ve stopped me from following him again. And again. Night after night. But it didn’t.

* * *

He didn’t break down like that again. Maybe he knew I was there, but I think (I hope) he just didn’t feel heartbroken enough to cry anymore. He tucked into the marshmallows every night, sometimes smearing Nutella over them. So while I don’t know what’s wrong with Baz, I know he has a serious sweet-tooth. 

I try to ask Penny if she thinks Baz is properly depressed, but when I open my mouth to ask, she shuts me down before I can get a word in. 

“You don’t know I was going to talk about Baz.”

She stares at me the way she does when I say something stupid (I get this stare a lot). “You have this face.”

“A face?”

She nods resolutely. “A face.”  
  


I wait for her to explain. Impatiently.

She sighs and says, “When you think about Baz you get this look on your face. It gets even more intense when you’re talking about him.”

“No, I don’t!” I say, leaning back in my chair. Agatha mumbles something under her breath, but Penny ignores her.

“Yes, you do.” She sounds almost pitying. “It’s how you look most of the day. You have a “Baz face”, and a ‘scone face’.” After thinking about it for a second she adds, “Sometimes the lines blur between the two.”

Agatha huffs and stands up, abruptly, stomping (somehow gracefully) out of the hall.

Weird. This conversation is _weird._

  
  
  
  
  


**BAZ**

On the fourth night I notice Snow, I decide to speak up. (I pray to every god that could possibly exist that he wasn’t there to witness my self-pitying crying).

“You’re not as stealthy as you think, Snow.” I say, glad to see I haven’t lost the smugness in my voice when I talk to Snow. I haven’t talked to him in weeks, although I suppose we never really _talked._

He startles, knocking over the same tray that crashed onto the floor that night. I have a feeling that answers the question I’ve been asking myself since I noticed him following me a few nights ago. I suddenly wish I hadn’t said anything. I suddenly wish I was never born.

Snow stammers with a ferocity that nobody but him could muster. “Baz! Um- well, I wasn’t - well, you see- it’s no- I’m not. I’ll just- go.” If I didn’t know any better I’d say he looked ashamed. _Sorry._ Then I remember that he loathes me, and isn’t a stranger to following me in the middle of the night. No matter how noble he is, he wouldn’t be _sorry._ He probably thinks he’s being noble by _stalking_ me. 

As he nearly trips over his own feet trying to make it out the door (it’s adorable), I say, before I can stop myself, “Do you want a cup of tea?”

_Do you want a cup of tea? What possessed me to even-_

“Yeah. Alright.” Snow says, uncertainly, cautiously, after a beat of silence. If he had his sword with him, his hand would definitely be hovering over the handle. That sword is a curse in many, many ways. 

I gesture to the kettle. He almost laughs at that, I can see amusement flicker across his face, with the familiar infuriation he reserves especially for me muddled in. After they battle it out, his features settle on exasperation, which is far more foreign to me than anger, coming from Simon Snow. 

“Awfully hospitable of you, Baz.” 

I smirk around the mug in my hand, but that quickly fades when I realise what’s in the mug. And the fangs resting in my mouth, which, in the dim light of the kitchen (of course I chose tonight to turn the lights on. I can see perfectly well in the dark), are probably quite visible to Snow. 

He isn’t moving to the kettle, just staring at me. I turn away from him. “You’re staring, Snow.” I wince at my lisp.

He hums distractedly. There’s something strangely gentle about him tonight. Nearly subtle, but there’s nothing subtle about Simon Snow. This conversation is bordering on amicable, which is also puzzling. I glance over at him, and my eyes land on his curls, which are flopped over his forehead unevenly. I almost sigh.

“So.” He says into the silence. “How- how are you?”

I snap my head over to look at him, ignoring the way the room spins for a second, and stare at him. He tries not to squirm under my gaze, but I am excellent at reading Snow, and his discomfort is clear. “What do you care?” I sneer eventually, pushing as much menace into it as I can. 

He clenches his fists at his sides. “Could you not be an arse for _one second?_ ” He looks as frustrated as I’ve ever seen him. Getting a reaction out of Snow is wonderfully easy. I turn the smile threatening at my lips into a smirk and say, “But it’s my best quality.”  
  


He glares at me, and I feel his magic expand out of him with every breath. He seems to _really_ want to know. “Merlin, Snow. I’m fine. Spectacular.” 

He takes a few deep breaths and says, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to- my magic just-.”

I make my way over to the cupboards to get some marshmallows. When I turn around, Snow’s staring at me. “How long have you been coming here? Do you just need to get blood from here?” _Fuck_. “Why don’t you ever eat dinner in the Hall?” The questions seem to be flowing out of him now. “Why marshmallows? I’m not judging, just. Why? And why aren’t you wearing all of your uniform? What’s been wrong with you lately? Are you-”.

I hold up my hand to stop him from blundering on. He sticks his chin out, but looks apologetic at the same time. It’s a confusing image.

“To answer your questions. Plural,” I say, with a roll of my eyes. I remember all of the questions. I’m both exceptionally smart, and hopelessly in love with Simon Snow. I remember every single thing he’s ever said to me. 

“Firstly, a while,” I try to keep it vague. With every answer I take a step closer to him.

“Secondly, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” His surprised expression when I began to answer the questions is replaced, again, with exasperation.

“Next, I do.” Again, vague.

“Fourth, I don’t see why you give a fuck why I like marshmallows.” I really don’t.

“I’m not wearing my full uniform because, believe it or not, if I’m found here, not wearing a blazer will not be why I’m punished.” By now I’m looking down at him, and we’re almost chest to chest. The familiarity of this is the only thing that feels normal, currently. Why am I even answering, even if the answers are dishonest? Why was he so intent on knowing if I was ok?

I don’t answer the last question, because I don’t know what to say. Instead, I raise my eyebrow at him, and say “Do you want to write that down, Snow? For your _investigation_? I’m sure your precious Mage will be thrilled to hear about why I like marshmallows.”

He shoves me away, both hands on my chest, and stomps over to the door. At first, I think he’s storming out, and I’m both relieved and disappointed. But then he returns a few seconds later. With a blanket. 

He tosses it at me. Despite my sharp reflexes, I don’t catch it. I don’t bother. I stare at him in what must be obvious confusion. He pulls his hand through his hair, tugging here and there, and shrugs.

“What does _that_ mean? Can you not formulate a response, Snow? Not a single word?”

He looks at the ground. “You’re always cold, and it’s not exactly warm down here. So.”

Before I can begin to comprehend what he just said, he turns around and walks determinedly out the door.

He doesn’t come back with a blanket this time.

  
  
  


**SIMON**

After what can only be described as the most mortifying night of my life, I avoid Baz as best I can for days. Which isn’t hard, considering he’s been doing the same since Christmas holidays. 

I’m not even sure why I brought the blanket. I decide not to think about it. 

Baz is probably thinking about it. I don’t blame him - your nemesis seemingly being concerned for your warmth and comfort is right baffling. Then again, it seems like he has a lot on his mind. Maybe I’m so insignificant to Baz that he barely thinks about me anymore. I’m stuck on that thought for a while.

A few nights later, when I can’t sleep, I get up, throw on my jumper, and head down to the kitchens. When I get there, Baz is on the ground, a half-eaten mint aero on his lap, as he leans against the wall. His head bounces up and down every few minutes, as if he’s catching himself, but I can tell he’s already asleep. 

He’s wrapped up in my blanket (it’s the one I usually use, but I hardly need it with the way I overheat), looking snug and oddly peaceful. For once, he looks young. Baz is always so serious, tense in his own way, even when he’s at ease. 

I catch myself smiling before I even realise it. I stand there for what could be five minutes or an hour. His face is so expressive when he’s asleep, an open book, a stark contrast from an unreadable tome when he’s awake. It’s fascinating to watch him, every twitch, every time he scrunches his nose (which makes me feel sort of sick, in a not-entirely-bad way). Is this what he looks like, barely a metre away from me, in our room? I can never tell in the dark.

When Baz starts to stir, I panic, and realise that it’s a bit bizarre of me (and, honestly, slightly creepy) to watch him sleep like this, so I shuffle back up the stairs and up to our room. 

When I get back, I close the window. 

  
  


* * *

The next night, I go down again, feeling nervous and jumpy. About what, I don’t know. Baz mocking me is something I’m used to, so heading down to see him after making myself look like an idiot shouldn’t feel like uncharted territory. 

When I woke up this morning, I knew I wanted to go back. Well, I wanted to talk to Baz, and this seemed like the only opportunity, with how skittish and scarce he’s been during the day. Why I want to talk to Baz, I don’t know. I’ll only be giving him an opportunity to mock me. But I’m worried about him (I’m still in shock myself), and mocking me seems to make his day.

Unlike last time, I _voluntarily_ step out of the shadows into the kitchen. Baz doesn’t even startle, just looks up from his tea (blood?), rolls his eyes, takes another sip and looks away again. I lean against the counter next to the kettle and make myself some tea, trying to act as casual as possible.

“Awfully self-sufficient of you, Snow.” He says, reminding me of my words from nearly a week ago, and I let out an abrupt, nervous sounding laugh. Why am I nervous? Why am I here? To chit-chat with Baz at one in the morning? _Yes,_ a voice answers. I call back, _Why would I want to do that?_

No reply. Baz regards me curiously. “What’re you doing here, Snow?” He’s not slurring his words like he was last time.

“I wanted some tea.” I shrug, and reach over to grab a marshmallow from the bag in his hands. He holds it in the air, and I just about stop myself from stumbling forward, into him. I huff, but persevere, because for some reason, I want to chit-chat with Baz. “How about you?”

“I was dying for some marshmallows,” he says, tossing one into his mouth.

“You could bring marshmallows up to our room.” I suggest, getting a tea bag ready. “Instead of eating them here. You could bring your...” I trail off, unsure of how to phrase what I’m about to say. Baz looks unimpressed. “.. _.drink_ with you, too. If you like.”

“I’m quite alright here, Snow.” He gestures towards the blanket on the floor behind me, smirking. “I’ve got quite the set-up.”

I feel my skin radiate with heat. Baz can definitely tell, even in the semi-darkness. I ignore him and say, “What’s wrong, Baz?”

“The water’s done boiling.” 

I step closer to him, forgetting about the kettle. “Baz.”

He sighs. “Snow.”

Now that I’m close to him, I can see every detail of his face. His skin looks as though it’s hanging on the bones of his face, and his eyes look pavement grey. He looks all wrong. His eyes are stormy, like threatening, furious clouds, and his face is never this gaunt. Haunting, elegant, but not gaunt.

I’ve been silent for too long. “ _Snow._ ”

  
  
  
  


**BAZ**

  
  


Simon Snow is staring at me, studying me. It’s disconcerting in the best and worst way possible. I’m honestly not sure what’s going on. If this is even real. While we’re not exactly being nice to each other, neither of us are trying to start a fight. It’s a glorious middle ground that makes me want to run the other way.

“You should come back to our room.” He says, finally.

“I can’t sleep, there’s no point.” Sleep deprivation is the only explanation for my honesty.

“Isn’t there a spell for that?”

“Not a safe one.” I’ve tried.

“Well,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “Maybe you should talk to someone about it.”

“Why would I take advice from _you_?” I sneer. “You run into problems with no thought whatsoever, and you have the emotional intelligence of a five year old.”

“For fuck’s sake, Baz. I’m trying to _help._ ” He starts tugging at his hair, and I can tell he’s becoming restless. I want to swat his hands away from his hair and tug at it myself. But that’s a terrible idea.

“Why? Because you suddenly care? Have we become friends and I didn’t know? Forgive me, Snow, I’ll be sure to remember next time.” 

His face twists, before he squares his shoulders. “Yeah,” he says indignantly, with finality.

“We’re friends.” I say, flatly. 

“Well, no,” I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t mildly disappointed, “but maybe I _do_ care.”

I gape at him, before turning around and walking to the freezer to take out some Ben and Jerry’s. I’m going to need it for support when he eventually reveals this has all been a joke at my expense and bounces out of the kitchen.

“You’re an idiot.” I say. Because it’s all I can think of, at the moment.

“For not wanting you to cry in the school kitchens at midnight?” he says, and I freeze. Then he freezes once he realises what he said. “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean to-”, he collects himself before saying. “I know something’s wrong. I saw you the other night,” I flinch, and I know he sees, “and I know we’re not friends, not even close, but-”.

He stops again, and I focus all of my energy into digging my spoon into the frozen-hard ice cream. “I don’t want to fight you anymore. It’s stupid.”

“That’s what you gathered from seeing me…” I falter, before going on, staring into the cookie dough, “ _upset_ , after following me down here.” 

“Yes.” He says without hesitation. “I want to call a truce.”

I bark a laugh at that, which I’m sure is a strange sound to both of us. “We’re in the middle of a war, Snow, remember? You’re the _chosen one._ ”

“I don’t care about all of that,” he insists, as stubborn as always, and I love him for it. I still think he’s outrageously idiotic most of the time, but I love him for that too, I suppose. _Aleister Crowley_. “I don’t want to fight you, and, well. I don’t know if you want to fight me, but. I don’t want to fight you,” he repeats, phrasing it as a question.

I light a fire in my palm, which makes Snow jump. I let my hand hover over the tub of ice cream, until it’s just soft enough to dig into. After a few bites, I look up to find him staring, transfixed. “That’s mental,” he says, grinning as if he’s not sure he’s allowed.

I roll my eyes. “A truce,” I say. “What would this truce entail?”

He grins properly this time, and he’s made of trouble.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll have an update by the end of the week! there'll be one more chapter with this "coffee at midnight lyric" before we get to the *real* fluff!!!  
> feel free to leave a comment if you like!  
> hope you enjoyed


	3. Coffee (Hot Chocolate) at Midnight, Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even Dev and Niall have noticed. Well, Dev noticed and Niall nodded along. While they haven’t commented on my ghastly appearance, Snow’s growing resistance to my remarks is ‘concerning’ them.
> 
> “Baz, mate, you’ve gone fucking soft.”
> 
> After an imaginative insult crafted by me was thrown at Dev, he didn’t think I was so soft anymore.
> 
> Perhaps snacking with Snow at midnight isn’t helping. 
> 
> Ever since that night a few weeks ago, when Snow proposed a truce, he’s been following me down to the kitchens. Instead of hiding and stalking me as he used to, he pours himself a glass of juice. One night I even showed him where they kept the left over scones. The way he was looking at me (or maybe the scones) as I warmed them up...
> 
> So maybe I don’t keep my distance then, but I couldn’t give this up if I wanted to. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the last chapter with this lyric, finally!! like most of my chapters, it didnt go the way i thought it would and its far longer than i thought it would be, but i hope it's still good!  
> enjoy <3

**BAZ**

I still refuse to go back to our room, no matter how insistent Snow is. It’s not as though I’m never there. I pop in and out whenever I need to, usually between classes, to shower (no amount of sleep deprivation can keep me from basic hygiene and my deep-conditioning routine. I’m not a monster. Well.), grab my books and change. I try to avoid Snow as best as I can, particularly now that we’ve established a ‘truce’. 

While we aren’t exactly friends, there’s a very different… _tone_ between us. He nods at me in the hallway now, instead of lunging at me, and I’m not the only one confused by it. Bunce is usually with him, nearly always by his side (which irritates me to no end - I used to chalk it up to an intolerance for Penelope Bunce, but now I know that it’s just pure jealousy), and she looks as alarmed as I feel by Snow’s casual acknowledgment in the halls. 

It’s quite nice, really, but I know it’s dangerous. Making Snow hate me was one thing, and while it wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience, I’d imagine it’s easier than being _friends_ with him. I don’t think I could handle it without bursting into flames. At least with us being enemies, there’ll be an end to this. At least I always know where I stand. This _,_ however, is uncertain. If I let myself go down that path, allow myself to even get a taste of what it’s like to have Simon Snow’s smile directed at me, or to share a _joke_ with him, I know it will demolish every single wall I have built around myself. So, I keep my distance.

If he nods, I sneer, if he fucks up a spell in class, I make sure to let him know. His magic still reacts, intoxicatingly bright, but Snow himself doesn’t seem to be half as bothered as he used to be by my insults. Have I lost my bite? 

Even Dev and Niall have noticed. Well, Dev noticed and Niall nodded along. While they haven’t commented on my ghastly appearance, Snow’s growing resistance to my remarks is ‘concerning’ them.

“Baz, mate, you’ve gone fucking soft.”

After an imaginative insult crafted by me was thrown at Dev, he didn’t think I was so soft anymore. 

Perhaps snacking with Snow at midnight isn’t helping. 

Ever since that night a few weeks ago, when Snow proposed a truce, he’s been following me down to the kitchens. Instead of hiding and stalking me as he used to, he pours himself a glass of juice. One night I even showed him where they kept the left over scones. The way he was looking at me (or maybe the scones) as I warmed them up...

So maybe I don’t keep my distance _then,_ but I couldn’t give this up if I wanted to. 

We talk about whatever comes to mind. Snow tries to pry some secrets out of me, at one point he even asked to play ‘20 questions’, but I always steer the topic back to something safer.

  
  
  
  


**SIMON** **  
  
**

I go to get the two mugs of hot chocolate out of the massive microwave (seriously massive) and nearly spill them on the way over to the counter. Baz is looking over at me, amused, one eyebrow perfectly raised.

I lift myself up onto the counter and face Baz. I’ve crossed my legs, sitting in the middle of the island (avoiding falling into the sink - can you imagine the field day Baz would have with _that_ ?), and I’m about at the same level as Baz. I try not to give him the opportunity to look down at me when I can. I can be intimidating when I want to be, Penny’s told me so, but when Baz is glaring down at me, eyebrow raised and arms crossed, it takes a bit of extra effort not to look inferior. Or _feel_ inferior, like a child (not like the humdrum as a child, wearing my face, that little shit can be scary when he - it? - wants to be). In any case, it can be distracting. 

Baz still tries to insult me in class. I guess some things never change, but it’s difficult to believe whatever snarky comment he’s throwing at me when this is happening. These chats in the middle of the night. It’s hard to hate Baz when I know his favourite books (a lot of Jane Austen) and his favourite quotes from them (including “The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid”. He recited it at me after I told him that I didn't really read. Because of course he did. Tosser. I looked it up first thing the next morning).

As frustrating as it is that Baz won’t even acknowledge our friendship (allyship? truceship?) during the day, in some ways, I understand. I look forward to coming to the kitchens every night, and if we were friends, proper friends, in broad daylight and all, would we stop coming here altogether? Would there be any point? (I think so, but I haven’t a clue what Baz would think).

I can read Baz well, probably better than anyone else, (I’ve lived with him for seven years, and ‘stalked’ him for some of them), but he’s still as mysterious as ever. Baz Pitch, the Enigma. I think that’s what makes him so attractive. I know Agatha thinks so. She accidentally told me last New Years after having a few _flutes of champagne._ I don’t know if she remembers. We didn’t kiss that New Years, either. It felt wrong to kiss her while she was drunk, and I don’t think she wanted to kiss me anyways. Come to think of it, Agatha and I haven’t kissed in a while. Or even held hands. If Baz started hanging out with us during the day, would he get closer to Agatha? Is he just using me to get to Agatha?

I don’t think so. Maybe he’s just a really good actor, but I think Baz likes talking in the kitchens as much as I do. And he hasn’t once brought up Aggie. Or tried to hang out with us during the day. 

“Twenty questions,” I say, stirring Baz’s hot chocolate so the marshmallows don’t lump. Baz is even a snob with _hot chocolate_.

Baz rolls his eyes. “I could just lie.”

“I thought you were a man of honour, Baz.”

Baz stares at me for what could be seconds or minutes, before saying, “Fine. Okay.” He stands up straighter, fixing me with a smirk. “Go ahead.”

I start off easy. “Favourite colour?”

Baz scoffs. “Really, Snow? That was underwhelming.”

I shake my head, exasperated, but I know he can see that I’m smiling. “This isn’t an interrogation.” He raises an eyebrow. “Yet.”

And it’s true. I just want to _know_ Baz, even the stuff he might consider trivial. I want to know the big stuff, the important stuff, too, but I want him to actually want to tell me. Not because of a stupid game. Everything I thought I knew about Baz is crumbling, and I’m not sure I mind.

I can tell he’s trying to resist a smile when he answers. “Blue. Plain, boring blue.”

Plain, boring blue. Huh. “Your turn.” I say, taking a sip of my hot chocolate. 

He thinks for a second. “Why do you shave your head every year, at the end of term?”

I’m surprised he asked, I assumed the answer was obvious. “The people who work at the care homes don’t exactly care if it’s an even shave,” I say, laughing a small bit, thinking of the awful haircuts I’ve gotten over the years. I don’t look at Baz when I say it though, I can’t. “There’s headlice, and it’s warm in summer, so it’s just. Easier, I suppose.”

When I eventually look at Baz, I see that he’s just looking at me, with guarded confusion. “You stay in care homes over the summer?”

I ignore the fact that it’s not his turn to ask a question, and say, “Yeah. The Mage says it’ll keep me close to the language, ‘sharpen my blade.’” I shrug, realising how childish I seem (even though Baz is the one drinking liquid marshmallows). 

Baz looks surprisingly indignant. “What a _fucker._ ” He’s always hated the Mage, which has always been a particular sore spot that we now try to avoid.

I shrug, which only angers Baz further. “It’s fine, really. It could be worse.”

Baz isn’t listening, though. “He sends you off on missions every other week, where you could very likely _die_ , and lets you go off like an atomic bomb, using you like some kind of weapon-” he cuts himself off, and turns to me from where he had paced off to. His infuriation turns to something else that I can’t quite place. “And after you do all of that _for him_ , he can’t even find you somewhere to _live_ for a few months every year.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I mean, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think Baz was being _protective,_ almost. It also sounds like he’s praising me, if you read between the lines, which is so baffling that I have to smile. Just for a second, before Baz sees and murders me for not taking him seriously. Which I am, I really am, but this entire conversation is nice. Having Baz in my corner about something (even though he’s insulting the Mage, which still pisses me off, but that’s pushed to the corner of my mind, for now) makes me feel strangely invincible.

“ _Baz_ , it’s fine.” The look he gives me tells me he thinks I’m full of shit. Which I am, I hate the care homes, but I still have Watford. I tell him that.

He sighs, and before he can say anything else, I cut in. “What’s your sister like?”  
  


That stops him short. “Which one?”

“The mean one?” All I know about her is that she’s a ‘little demon’.

Baz seems to understand, and he starts to smile. “Mordelia.”

_So posh._ “ _Mordelia._ Do you all have fancy vampire names?” 

He ignores the vampire part (he still hasn’t confirmed or denied anything recently). “It’s a family name. And nowhere near as bad as the twins’.”

I gasp dramatically. “It gets worse?”

“Yes, but you don’t get to hear about it.”  
  


  
  
  


**BAZ**

I’m still enraged that Simon spends the entire school year being tossed around by the fucking _Mage,_ and then doesn’t even have a place that’s his own during the summer. He’s just carted off to wherever the Mage sees fit. Or does he even care enough what happens to Snow to handle his travel and where he’s sent? It’s appalling.

I can tell Simon didn’t want to discuss it any further, so I’ve dropped it for now. Maybe I seemed too _invested_ in what happens to Simon Snow, but I’m not worried about that presently. He needs to know someone gives a shit (not that he’d believe me if I said I did). Someone needs to give a shit, full stop. What does Bunce have to say about this?

Instead of ranting to Snow about his own living arrangements, I slip my phone out of the pocket of my school trousers.

“You have a _phone_ ? In _school?_ ” He says, for some reason surprised by my disregard for our principal’s authority. “What if the Mage finds out?”

“Is the Mage going to find out?” I reply easily. I’m well aware of the consequences, but I refuse to be afraid of the Mage. Maybe later on tonight I’ll take Fiona’s advice, and leave a bag of dog shit in his office. We’ll see.

“I’m not a _snitch,_ ” he says, and I can’t help but laugh. Simon Snow, the boy who tried to tell the entire that I was a vampire as soon as he was even remotely suspicious. He tries to look angry, but I think he’s thinking the same thing as me, undercutting his self-righteousness. “Why’d you take your _contraband_ phone out, anyways? I don’t even think there’s wifi in the kitchens.”

I wordlessly hand him my phone, which is open on a photo of Mordelia, smirking, with cookie batter all over her hands, and an Arctic Monkeys jumper, courtesy of Fiona. Simon’s smile grows as he looks at it. “She hardly looks like the menace you make her up to be.”

“Try living with her and come back to me on that one.” I say, sliding onto the counter (I don’t need to hop like Snow did) and facing him, one leg dangling off. “The dough wasn’t to make cookies. She stuffed my new violin with it, because I wouldn’t let her play it. _Uncooked_ .” Snow bursts out laughing, _clutching-your-stomach_ laughing, and I have to laugh too, because how could I resist? I _did that_ (kind of). Before I can stop him, Snow swipes to the next photo, and laughs even harder. 

It’s a photo of Mordelia and I on the Underground, forced to take public transport, both looking thoroughly unimpressed. Fiona took it when we weren’t looking and sent it to me. We’re sitting next to each other, both with our arms folded, scowling, legs crossed. Identical, almost. Despite what the photo may suggest, that was the best day I’d had in a while. It was the summer of sixth year, and there was no Malcolm making everything miserable, and no thoughts of Simon Snow (well, hardly any) were attacking my brain. It was lovely. 

Snow’s still wheezing when I demand he give me my phone back. I’m not worried he’ll find anything I don’t want him to, other than remotely embarrassing photos like that one. I clean my phone and camera roll out regularly, in case the Mage finds it and snoops through, or in case my father does. I learnt that the hard way. (My camera roll used to be full of memes and pictures of Troye Sivan, sue me.) 

“That’s-” he hiccups, “adorable-” he says, and I ignore the way my stomach swoops. I’m pathetic.

I reach for the phone again, laughing with him, when he leans back too far, dodging me, and falls into the sink. I try to grab him by the arm, but he slips anyways and my grip slides to his hand as he lies there, in the sink of our school kitchen. He stays in that position, shaking with laughter, his hand still in mine. I’m laughing with him, savouring every second of this moment - the weight of his hand in mine, his bright smile as he looks at me, his unguarded laughter - despite my best instincts telling me not to. I yank the phone from him when he closes his eyes and settles back into the sink (it’s not even a big sink, I’m not sure how he’s even remotely comfortable), and switch between watching him, lying there with his eyes shut, a smile resting on his lips, practically glowing, and flicking through photos on my phone that I’ve refused to look at since Christmas. 

Eventually Snow opens his eyes, luckily while I’m looking through my phone, and frowns. “What’s wrong?”

I look at him, his hair all over the place, still smiling faintly, quietly, but his eyes are full of unmistakable concern. I decide I don’t want to ruin this night, taint this memory with the sadness that’s been following me everywhere since Christmas. Except for tonight. And every other night I’ve spent with Simon Snow in this room. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

He squeezes my hand, and it feels so _nice_ and _right_ that I want to melt into the counter and cry. I look down at where his hand is connected to mine, and he pulls it away when he sees where my eyes have drifted, sitting up. 

It was nice while it lasted. 

He gets out of the sink (I still can’t believe he nearly fell asleep in a sink), and stands up, resting against the counter, twisting his head to look at me. “Talking about it might help.”  
  


I roll my eyes. Simon Snow, Therapist. “There’s nothing to talk about. I-”. The phone starts buzzing in my hand. I look at the name that has popped up on the screen. _Daphne Grimm-Pitch._

I answer immediately. She hardly ever calls, she knows I’m not supposed to have a mobile in school, and calling in the middle of the night is rarely a good thing. My mind starts wandering. Was there an accident? Is Mordelia alright? The twins-

_“Hello? Basilton?”_ _  
  
_

“Yes. Hello, Daphne. Is everything alright?”

I walk away from Snow, shooting him a look that not even I know the meaning of. I cradle the phone at my ear and make my way to the cupboard in the corner, tucking my arms into myself, preparing for the worst. Has the Mage done something? 

_“Everything’s fine, Basil. How are you keeping?_ ”   
  


_Oh._ I breathe out a sigh of relief, before remembering that I have to respond. I haven’t been in contact with any of my family for months now. Daphne, while she’s not my flesh and blood, has always been kind to me. Maybe that’s why she called, to check on me. She’s always had impeccable manners.

“I’m doing well. How are the children?”

I don’t bother asking about my father, manners be damned. I glance over at Snow to see him cleaning up. He flashes me a smile, distracting me from the phone call, before I refocus.

_“Everyone’s very well. Mordelia has been asking for you.”_

I almost feel guilty, before remembering that I was the one made unwelcome in my own home. I do miss Mordelia, though. As much as I complain, I like her. She’s got too much nerve and cheek for her own good. I’m not sure where she got it from, to be entirely honest.

I nod, but then remember that Daphne can’t see me. I clear my throat. “Good.”

Daphne sighs before going on, and I can hear her reluctance. _“I was wondering what your plans are for next week.”_

Next week. I hadn’t even thought of it. We have a week off, and I usually go home (why, I’m not sure). Some students go home, but a good few stay at Watford (Simon Snow’s gang included) too. Daphne doesn’t give me time to think of an answer, which I’m thankful for, until I hear what she says. “Your father and I were thinking that it would be easier if you stayed at school for the week. A painter is coming in to re-do the walls, and-”

I interrupt before she gives me another made-up excuse. “That’s fine. Most people stay at Watford. I’m sure it can be arranged.” I’m not sure why this news is so shocking. I had hoped by now my father would have _grown up_ a bit, but I was wrong. And foolish. 

She apologises, and we say our goodbyes, and I hang up. I stare at my phone for a moment, going over the conversation, word-for-word, in my head. I feel very still.

“Baz? _Baz._ ” 

I snap my head up to find Simon Snow in front of me. “Is everything okay?”

“Perfect.” I say, but my voice catches, and I wince. 

Snow raises his hand, and before he can rest it on my arm, I brush past him. He calls after me, trailing behind me. 

“Go back and sleep, Snow, I’m fine.” I try to sound in-control, but my voice cracks and it sounds fragile and awful.

“No, Baz, I-”

“ _Go._ ” I sound more forceful this time, and I can tell Simon’s taken aback. I steady myself, saying, as calmly as I can, “I’m fine, just going for a walk. By myself.” 

I take off through the corridors, and Snow doesn’t follow. I’m glad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't seem to help making baz sad, im so sorry.  
> more characters next chapter! penny's pov is on its way, and agatha, dev and niall will all make a bigger appearance!!  
> please feel free to leave as many comments as you like about whatever you like  
> hope you enjoyed!!

**Author's Note:**

> spoiler alert: simon was watching the whole time. simon pov next update!!! which will be soon!! lots of exclamation points!!! sorry baz is so sad but he'll be happier soon!! fuck malcolm  
> i'm planning on doing probably two more chapters on this lyric (which is a lot, but i promise i'll try and make it interesting) before moving onto  
> "lighthearted joke, no proof, not much, but you saw enough" - the POVS will be expanding to penny too!! hurrah!  
> please feel free to leave as many comments as you like! about things you liked, hated, even what you had for dinner, anything you like, i love comments!!  
> that's all, hope you enjoyed


End file.
